It Starts When You're Around
by zombie josette
Summary: Quentin knows that he shouldn't let her say these things. That he should have dismissed her from his house the moment that he saw her lounging in the drawing room. But he doesn't. AU. 1970 Parallel time. Quentin/Victoria.


"Just what the hell do you think you're doing here?"

She sits, legs crossed in a way that makes her skirt _just_ toe the line of indecency, arm dangling over the side of the sofa. If she's heard him, she makes no indication of it until, finally, she languidly looks back at him, a smirk growing on her face and dark hair spilling over her shoulder as she turns. She's too much at home. It makes him feel like an intruder.

"Oh, Quentin. I wasn't expecting you so early. I let myself in; I hope you don't mind." The smirk widens into a smile that he supposed would dazzle anyone else, and he can swear that she bats her eyelashes.

Quentin Collins has never liked Victoria Winters.

"I asked you a question," he snaps. He's stuck in the doorway to the drawing room and dammit, __this is his house___,_ what right does she have to __freeze him to the spot__with a look like that.

His eyes must be transfixed to her face because he could pinpoint the exact moment when her lips folded into a pout.

"Yes, but you weren't very nice about it," she says. She holds up her left hand and he wonders how he missed__that__small detail: the ring on her third finger. "And on top of that, you couldn't even be bothered to get the correct size ring. Really, Quentin, I'm disappointed in you."

It takes him a moment longer than it should to retort with, "It isn't _for ___you___."_ But Victoria waits patiently, never breaking eye contact, and when he finally speaks she sighs and rolls her eyes, effortlessly getting up from the sofa. She takes her time walking the short distance, and then she's right in front of him, almost unbearable close, before she drops the diamond ring into his breast pocket.

"I know. And it's a shame, really." Her dark eyes aren't on him; instead they flick to the side before she continues, and they pierce his blue ones again. Her fingers are still lingering on his chest. "Maggie Evans? I suppose I should wish you luck." There's venom on her voice, and she turns away, walking across the drawing room. "But so soon after dear Angelique's passing. Nobody's really sure what you're doing."

Quentin knows that he shouldn't let her say these things. That he should have dismissed her from __his__ house the moment that he saw her lounging in the drawing room.

But he doesn't. It's an entertaining notion, of course, but one that Quentin would never actually consider. It had never been an option since Angelique had introduced the two of them, his wife's blue eyes pleading and Victoria's pitiful act at its finest. __"Oh, Quentin, she doesn't have anyone. Just one week. Until she can get her head above water. She's my friend, Quentin."__

"I love Maggie."

"You'd love me if I asked you to." The response is immediate, nothing coy or indirect about it. Victoria never was either of those things unless she had reason to be.

The worst part was that she was right.

The part that fueled his rage was that he wasn't the only one. __Anyone __would love Victoria if she asked, with her wide doe eyes and her shoulders slumped just so, hands folded in her lap and__just__ shying away from a smile.

__"No family at all?" he had asked. __

__Victoria had looked away, eyes toward the floor, and she said nothing. She didn't have to; Quentin already felt the pang in his chest. Angelique laid a comforting arm around her and nodded toward him.__

__"Let's not discuss it now," she'd insisted. She was already steering Victoria to the stairs. "Come, I'll show you to your room."__

"You didn't answer my question," Quentin insists. His voice is raised - a frantic way of showing authority. It only makes Victoria's eyebrows shoot up, humor dancing in her eyes.

"I think it's very rude of you to make demands of me like that," she respons, and her voice takes on a more melodic quality. She continues her strange waltz about the room. "This place always was like a home to me. The only home I've ever really known." Victoria turns back to him and her eyelashes flutter again.

He looks away.

A sigh escapes her. "But, you don't seem to be in a visiting mood. It's painfully dull." She saunters his way and her fingers dance across his chest as she moves past him out of the drawing room. A moment later, her heels are clicking on the floor of the foyer and then the door opens and she's gone, working her black magic elsewhere. Somewhere more appreciative. Whatever strange paralysis had nailed Quentin to the spot has passed, but when Quentin eyes the drawing room, he has no desire to enter. He stands there, fists clenched, and takes a breath. He can still smell her perfume, still feel her presence spreading through the house, and he swears to himself that it has to stop, that he can never _ever_ offer her a place again. He'll stop taking her calls, forbid Hoffman from letting her enter.

But all she'd have to do is ask.


End file.
